would refuse a certificate to a dragoman, unless
he had attempted homicide, theft, or arson? The
man pleased with a journey, or glad that it is
over, is equally in a good humour and is equally
in a certificate-giving humour. If Mr. H. is
angry, then Mrs. H. pleads for the "poor fellow,"
and the mischievous certificate is given. How
much better if a book were kept by the English
consul—who by-the-by, charges a very heavy
fee for protecting his countrymen—in which
all the dragomans' names were entered, with
a line of comment on each voyage, written by
their employers for the guidance of future
travellers. Then we might find such serviceable
landmarks, as "drinks," "lies," "steals,"
"impertinent," "lazy," "speaks bad English,"
"plots with the men," "coward," "keeps no
promises;" or, on the other hand, "cheerful,"
"active," "sensible," "speaks good French,"
"is fond of antiquities," "attentive," "good
cook," and the like.

The fact is, the dragoman originally was
nothing but a valet, who could speak English
and the language of the country in which his
employer was travelling; but foolish rich people,
from spoiling him, overpaying him, and doing
nothing for themselves, have let him grow into
the great man, and the tyrant who rules you,
and who himself wants servants to wait on him.
He drives, he bullies, he swaggers, he looks big;
he is, in fact, "a regular Turk."

No smile in the world can equal the smile of
a dragoman who smiles at the mention of a low
price. It is at once contemptuous, servile, and
deprecating. He gently pinches your hand in a
coaxing way, and lays the matter before you:

"But, my master, you no want stinky boat—
rat boat—you want nice boat, quick boat—you
want meals as hotel, you want go' 'tendance—
you want good camel, good donkey."

"Go away! I am just going down to dinner."

"Very well, my master—any time—to-morrow
morning, six o'clock—very well, my master
—salamat—good night, my master!"

"Tell all the other dragomans to come to me
to-morrow morning."

"Very well, my master—God bless you, my
master—good night—remember my name
Mohammed Kammoonee."

"Mo-hammed Kam-moon-ee."

"All right, my master."

Forgetting the somewhat tedious etiquette
of a Moslem country, I (in my own case)
banged the door on Mohammed, by the same
act nearly flattening the nose of the too
obtrusive and watchful Achmed Doodeh, who,
though much injured, shouted an unavailing
assurance that he would take me to Mount
Sinai for ten pounds less than would pay him,
because he was a young man wishing to become
a dragoman, as his father had been.

After all, I took neither Doodeh, nor
Kammoonee, nor Bumba, but the lean imperious
Abool Hoosayn, recommended to me by a
Cairo wine-seller, who knew the keeper of a
curiosity-shop, who knew an Alexandria
commission agent, who knew me. I found him the
ignorant, conceited, strutting, sallow little tyrant
I have already mentioned.

I hear him now (I write on board a Nile
boat), in a gale of wind, storming at and insulting
the Arab captain for allowing one of my
shirts to blow off the line on the quarter-deck.
The captain says, with fierce stolidity, and some
justice, "Wullah! O dragoman! I did not blow
it over. Speak to the sailors, O dragoman!
Am I the son of a dog that thou thus speakest
to me? Curses on thee, and on the kaffir, thy
master, and may his face be blackened in the
day of doom!"

As I am supposed not to understand this, I
am not in the least angry, and smoke away at my
leisure at my cabin window: attending more or
less to the welfare of a long line baited for the
sluggish Nile fish.

We have just bumped on an earth-bank, or
grated over a sand reef, and now six of our men
are poling us off.

Hear their semi-religious chorus, which the
reis, or captain, leads. I do not translate it
word for word, but give the tenor of it. The
reis calls out some attribute of Allah, to which
his boatmen answer, "God is great!" The
chorus runs thus:

"The Omnipotent!"
"God is great!"
"The All-merciful!"
"God is great!"
"The Bountiful!"
"God is great!"
"The Omnipresent!"
"God is great!"
"The Gracious!"
"God is great!"
"The Just!"
"God is great!"
"The Lord of Paradise!"
"God is great!"

And so on for some two hours, until the palms
on the Nile-bank become mere black tufts, and
the moon blazons her crescent of white fire
against a golden cloud, gorgeous as a caliph's
banner of conquest.

SELECT COMMITTEE ON FRENCH
SONGS.

TWO SITTINGS. SITTING THE SECOND.

THERE is a. very curious account of a custom
and a song handed down from 1586 in the town
of Castellane, in the Basses Alpes. Castellane
in that year was besieged by the Protestants,
and repulsed the aggressors, much assisted by
the exploit of a woman, who is traditionally
named Brave Judith. She placed herself above
one of the gates of the town at the time of the
siege, and threw down a tub, plastered over
with burning pitch, on the assailants, who were
trying to break through the gate by means of a
petard. The leader of the men was crushed
under this tub. The song to commemorate this
event is called La Chanson du Pétard. Until
1825 the anniversary of this deed of "derring-
do" was kept up by various ceremonies in